A Scandal in Buckingham Palace
by FlyMeAwayInYourTARDIS
Summary: While Mycroft was consulting the sleuthing pair, each situation brought back memories of their last late night rendezvous. JohnLock


**So here is my first Sherlock fic, but I'm not going to ask you to go easy on me. This is how I write, so whatever. I'm attempting to abide by the Fiction M standards now, so enjoy and fill in the rest for yourself. :)**

**When I watched A Scandal in Belgravia, while our boys were in Buckingham Palace, my brain went crazy with possibilities. This was written in one night as I rushed to get it done before my friend finished watching Degrassi and it was time to FaceTime, but I'd say it's pretty decent for that.**

**Also: Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC have the rights to these characters, as does Conan-Doyle. Not me. **

* * *

John sat down beside Sherlock and looked around the room, finally settling on Sherlock's ass. He leaned back.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied evenly.

"Okay." He pursed his lips and looked around the room before his eyes landed back on Sherlock when they both burst out laughing.

The detective's baritone chuckles were deep and rumbling, reminding John of two nights ago when Sherlock was in similar wear and making similarly pitched noises.

. . . .

The sleuth lay naked on John's bed, tangled in the crisp white sheets that accentuated his paleness in a very contradictory way. John was slowly exploring the expanse of smooth white terrain that was Sherlock's chest, pausing at raspberry peaks to taste, drawing a long, deep moan from the sociopath's perfect lips made red from feverish kisses. John made his way down the marble-esque flesh, tracing lines, mapping the mountains and valleys with his tongue. Sherlock continued to writhe beneath him, arms grasping for something to hold, legs kicking beneath the doctor in impatience. A steady stream of groans came from beneath John, rumbling against his most intimate parts, as they were pressed against the rumbling man, sending incredible jolts of electricity straight through his veins, fizzling in his fingertips.

. . . .

"Get off my sheet." The detective said, sounding as indignant as a five year old.

"Or what?" Mycroft snapped back.

"Or I'll just walk away." Sherlock retorted in the tone only used for fighting with siblings; slightly flustered, cross, and attempting to preserve your dignity.

"I'll let you." His brother said, tone low; threatening and even.

"Boys, please, not here." John intervened just in time. He didn't know if he could handle a naked Sherlock divesting himself completely of the sheet and walking away with no hint of embarrassment. Just the pale expanse of back was doing unspeakable things to John's body and the memories this was turning up were not helping.

. . . .

"Lube," John gasped, breathing heavily as Sherlock ground himself frantically into the doctor, sucking vigorously on his neck, berry hued marks blossoming on his skin.

"Right." Sherlock rasped, extricating himself from the tangle of long, lanky limbs and short, stocky ones and walking down the hallway stark naked, his sculpted ass swaying teasingly with each step. John watched avidly as his porcelain lover languorously retreated and soon after returned, erection bouncing with every footfall in a bed of dark curls. Again John felt his blood turn to electricity in his veins, sending tingling jolts through his body, collecting deliciously in his groin.

. . . .

"Sex doesn't alarm me." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"How would you know?" His brother sneered, confident in the knowledge that his little brother was a virgin.

Sherlock, of course, knew this and played along, for he and John had agreed not to speak of their bedroom activities outside of Baker Street. He made a face, feigning upset, but the memories of two nights ago flooded his mind.

. . . .

Kissing John as he pushed him up against the wall, tearing the ridiculous jumper over his head. Being on his knees before the doctor and finally knowing the pleasure of having Dr. John Hamish Watson come in his mouth. John pressed into the mattress below Sherlock, positively begging for more, modesty thrown out the window. John moaning his name as he came into the bed sheet—the one Sherlock had just been wrapped up in, reveling in the secret filth and kinkiness only he and John could know.

No, sex did not disturb him. Not in the least, but he was certainly glad he wasn't wearing only a sheet anymore.

* * *

**If you know what I mean. xD **

**Please review. Reviews are love. **


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